


Evolution

by trivialsins



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Fenris, BAMF Hawke, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Domesticity, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Lots of it, M/M, Major Character Injury, Manpain, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Painful Relationship Breakup, Pining, Post-Canon, Pro-Templar Hawke is not evil, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers, eventual fenders, no mary sue, red!rainbow!m!Hawke, should not have had that sex, thank the Maker for female roomies, trigger warning: physical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8509855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trivialsins/pseuds/trivialsins
Summary: It's 9:37 Dragon. Hawke is Viscount of Kirkwall and he's determined to resurrect and protect the city. He and his friends deal with the aftermath of his decision to support the Templars.Fenris wants to begin exploring life the way a free man would, and starts looking for a life partner. Fate, inexperience and Anders cause problems he did not not anticipate.





	

It was a long time before he allowed himself to admit it.

He was lying in bed on his stomach between Meris and Thomas and he pulled his pillow over his head and realized he had made a mistake. He pulled the pillow against the back of his skull and pressed his face into the mattress and squirmed in one last vain attempt to avoid the realization, but he knew what he had to do.

Fenris pushed the pillow away and raised himself on his elbows, and with his eyes still squeezed shut he gripped his hair, pulling it. He did not want it. He wanted what he had now, what he had worked for, the life he had spent so long in claiming. 

Opening his eyes he looked down at Meris' beautiful face, his brow smooth with sleep, admiring anew his white skin and the fine taper and perfect points of his ears. Meris' soft black hair, always too long, dusted over his cheeks. Meris always stole the blankets and left Thomas and him with only the sheets. Thomas did not mind. Fenris minded, but Thomas was more than enough to warm him. The human was a furnace, and he was always edging closer. He did not steal blankets, he stole the bed. He was half laying on Fenris, his tanned arm draped across Fenris' back, and his sex was pressed against Fenris' thigh.

For Thomas, Fenris' decision would be difficult, but he would find something to occupy himself. Aveline was mentioning the guard. Fenris did not worry. Thomas was capable enough. He would forget and move on, but Meris would not. The scowl on Meris' face was near eternal, fading completely only at their touch or when he slept. Meris was going to be completely lost.

***

The early days of Hawke's reign were bleak.

Their victory felt empty. The air was crisp and still and when their own battles were done they could hear shouts and screams from across the water.

They looked out from the Gallows Docks to see the city seething; there were flashes of magic and groups of people were milling like ants. Mages, Templars and troublemakers were running each other down in the streets and forcing their way into buildings. The fires were spreading, and there seemed to be no one to help put them out. Every power in Kirkwall was either dead or at the Gallows, and they were wounded and flagging. When Hawke saw what was happening he crumbled in exhausted frustration, resting his hands on his knees. He croaked a question to Aveline about her guards, and she wearily shook her head. Whatever they were doing was up to Donnic. 

Cullen knew no better. Fenris was not privy to their conversation, but he could tell from Hawke's intent gaze and the way he motioned to Meredith's corpse that Hawke was wasting no time establishing his preeminence. Cullen kept his head down and nodded, demoralized enough to let him. It was still no mean feat. Hawke's allies numbered all of eight, counting Zevran, and Cullen had four times that at the Gallows alone. 

Maybe it was not so strange. The mages and the Templars in the Gallows had nearly wiped each other out. The ones in the city were doing the same and destroying what little the Qunari had left standing four years before. Anders had triggered the disaster, but the scope of it was entirely the Templars' fault.

Cullen marshaled his remaining forces. Hawke had him pick a few of his ablest to accompany them, only as many as Anders and Bethany could keep alive. They took a few moments, gulping water and wolfing down a bit of food direct from stores, and then they were on barges back to the city. 

Hawke cut his way to the Keep through the night, in the end killing everyone who stood in his way, looters, thugs, mages and Templars alike. Hawke confronted a cowering Seneschal Bran in his bedroom, informing him that the Knight Commander was dead and he was assuming control of Kirkwall. Then he had gone back out into the streets.

The fighting stopped a few hours later. If there were any mages left alive they skulked into hiding to attack from the shadows. The remaining fires were put out. The survivors crept from their homes and began the grim task of removing the dead and clearing the rubble under a chill mid-morning sun. Cullen, Hawke and their companions dragged themselves back to Hawke's new residence. Bran had the late Viscount Dumar's suite opened and aired in their absence, and they sank wearily onto pallets and the floor for a few hours of unconsciousness.

Once they woke, they walked the city and reviewed the damage. Much was burnt, and the water supply was fouled. They had to act quickly or Kirkwall would succumb to disease.

The estates nearest the blast center were leveled, and the noble families in them were dead. Fenris' estate was three rows of houses away from the Chantry. The explosion had torn half his roof away. 

He'd stood in the rubble with his head bowed, and Hawke had put his arm around his shoulders.

Hawke's estate was closer to the Keep, and partially sheltered by it. It seemed relatively unscathed; the windows were blown through and broken glass littered the floor. There was a deceptively mild looking crack that ran from the cellars to the roof. Orana and Bodahn were terrified, and Bodahn was sick with worry about his son. Hawke, still filthy with gore and soot, guiltily drew them both into an apologetic embrace, telling Bodahn that Sandal was safe and to pack; he was abandoning the estate, and they were to go to the Viscount's rooms in the Keep.

Aveline and Cullen began the work of repairing the docks, salvaging the contents of warehouses, getting the fishing vessels out to sea and cleaning the aqueducts. Hawke paid a quick visit to Xenon, and Thaddeus came for Meredith's corrupted body, terrifying the few Templars Cullen had left by walking out of the ocean. Fenris still did not know how the golem had kept the papers authorizing the corpse's removal dry. He had his information second hand from a young, awe-struck Templar who'd been on guard. Thaddeus crated the body and brought it and Sandal back by barge. He disappeared into Darktown; Meredith became part of Xenon's collection.

A shelter for the injured and homeless was set up in the Keep. Hawke quickly realized he had to start from scratch. Every able body was hired by the Viscount's office, at first only for room and board, put to work clearing streets, and rebuilding homes and warehouses.

Fenris turned over the contents of his ruined estate before looters could deprive him of it. He took Varric and Hawke down into his cellars and gave the new Viscount all that was left of what Danarius had brought to Kirkwall and what remained from the previous owner, the merchant Danarius had killed. 

Fenris had been too proud to sell his master's possessions to survive, only resorting to it when there had been no other way to buy food. He preferred to earn his own way, first with theft until he'd attracted the attention of the Coterie, and then with mercenary work. He had ignored most of the estate, left the boxes and bags unopened and the books and grimoires mouldering in the shelves, spitefully content to let everything turn to dust. 

He was certain none of it was worth much; Danarius had abandoned it. There were weapons, some armor, assorted shiny things, some of them enchanted. Varric and Hawke had looked around and opened a few crates out of politeness, and then more out of excitement.

To their surprise and Varric's glee, the contents of the bags and boxes turned out to be quite valuable. One of the chests contained fifty royals. They laughed over that, imagining the hurry Danarius might have been in when he had fled the house years ago, or whether he even knew. Varric's eyes gleamed as he let the golden coins drop though his fingers; the value of the sovereign would fall, he said. It was a great deal of money, enough to pay for all the spies they could possibly need. Fenris did not understand how fifty coins could be more than fifty and did not want to, but it pleased him none the less. Varric summoned accountants and laborers from the Keep and had everything tallied and hauled away.

Fenris' days were too full to mourn his estate. He was still Hawke's right hand man, and now his bodyguard. He went everywhere with him. His belongings were reduced to the contents of one small trunk and a lute. At night he lay awake in the barracks. A top bunk was a poor substitute for the place he had taken for his own.

He had pretended it was his. It was Danarius' and he held it for him like a good slave should while he laid in wait to kill him. Then people had begun to bother him for money, and he found out the truth. Danarius did not own the estate; he could not own it. Even Dumar had balked at allowing a Magister to own property in Kirkwall. Danarius had made the true owner disappear and appropriated the estate simply by continuing to pay the taxes, and he was no longer paying. 

Fenris had cursed himself. He should have expected such callous audacity from his master. If he had known that all he had to do was pay a yearly fee in the name of a dead man, he could have avoided much trouble, but it was too late. He had no business in the estate at all, and the Seneschal's office knew it. 

He'd shared his problems with Isabela, who happily sold herself to the Seneschal on his behalf, or perhaps she claimed a love gift, or blackmailed Bran. He had not cared which and had refused to let her tell him, for fear of how she might suggest he return the favor.

Fenris claimed the estate and dared anyone to take it from him, treating it like the world had treated him and the dead he shared it with—like trash. He inflicted himself on Hightown with lordly disdain, pretending to every right, making his elven and impoverished existence a deliberate insult and his strength an open threat. He would not have gotten away with it, even with Isabela's help, if not for the graciousness of the Captain of the Guard. Only after Danarius' death, when Aveline let Varric forge papers and the estate had been thoroughly and incontrovertibly stolen for him by a master thief, had he started to think of it as a home, and by then it had been in ruins, not unlike the scarred freedman who was beginning to accept that truth about himself.

He'd finally regained a measure of what had been torn from him, and then another mage had taken all he had from him again, in the arrogant, typical way of mages, inflicting the misery of his cursed life on everyone around him. He could not even be angry with Anders for it; although he had not foreseen the exact way Anders would fall, it had been inevitable that he would.

And, if he were being completely honest, considering the news the Viscount was getting from across the Free Marches, it had been inevitable that someone would. 

Fenris did not understand it. He refused to believe that other Circles were as bad as the Gallows. So some Templars abused their power, so what? Evil people existed the same way everywhere, as the rebelling mages were no doubt learning. Fenris remembered the shock of his first experiences with true freedom. He remembered when he had heard the phrase 'knife ear' for the first time. Food cost money and the people who sold it could watch, stony-eyed, while he starved. Others wanted what little he had and were ready to take it by force. Safety sometimes came at a price he was not willing to pay; he had naively assumed all southerners were less perverse than any decadent Tevinter mage. He discovered he had to fight and scavenge and steal just to keep himself alive. The only thing that made it less of a disappointment was realizing that freedom was the same for everyone.

Most people in Thedas struggled to get a portion of what mages had by right. Mages had a place to sleep and enough to eat freely given to them; they had books and teachers and the opportunity to live comfortable, secure lives in quiet scholarship. Surely what they otherwise endured was a small price to pay for such riches?

One sunny afternoon he was summoned to the Keep's gardens, surprised to find no one but the Viscount sitting at a small table under a tree blooming with fragrant pink flowers. There was a small pond nearby that had lilies floating in it.

Fenris had never been to this part of the Keep, and he finally understood why Merrill had risked everything to defy the Guards and keep coming back. He almost wished he had gone with her. The trees were ancient and majestic and spaced carefully so nothing detracted from their individual glory. The flowers were beautiful; there were vast beds of them, separated by wide verdant spaces and walks lined with short, ornately clipped hedges. A rich green lawn spread all around them. 

It was quiet and pleasant. They shared a lunch and a bottle of wine while blushing petals drifted and graceful birds—from Antiva, Hawke informed him—from Dumar's menagerie wandered closer and swam in the water. They talked leisurely. Fenris was glad; he missed speaking with Hawke. Too often since Hawke had become Viscount they'd had to cut discussions short or confined themselves to practical matters. 

Fenris let his friend talk, recognizing pain. Hawke had always been more sympathetic to the mage's plight than Fenris thought was wise, and the cost for that mistake was high, but even he had to admit, now that it was done, that the mages in the Gallows had been needlessly wasted. The one mercy was that Hawke had managed to take Bethany before a Templar's sword did, although in retrospect, it was not surprising. Bethany had been exactly where she ought, supporting the Head Enchanter, and the siblings' instincts had led them unerringly toward one another.

There was not much Hawke could have done differently. The mages had been doomed, condemned before Hawke even lifted his sword.

Elthina had done nothing. She'd waited for the Maker and did not guess He had a mortal hand. Hawke had worked ceaselessly, made his rounds with Varric, Anders and Fenris in tow, from Elthina to Orsino to Meredith to Cullen and back again, complaining, reasoning, demanding, begging, but to no avail. By this point Hawke had the power to ask for and get his sister from the Gallows, but he left her as a ransom to both sides. It did not matter. There was no relief. Everyone looked to Hawke and burdened him further. It was ludicrous how quickly Hawke was weighted down; Hawke had never managed to secure more than a handful of supporters for himself, but the demands on him only grew.

He'd stalled for time, looking for a way to neutralize Meredith without antagonizing the Templars, some way to muzzle Orsino without weakening the mages further.

Without warning, time ran out.

Anders forced Hawke to act, and forced him to make a dreadful choice between two evils. Everything Hawke had built came crashing down in an instant. There was no way out, no way to keep his hands clean. He despaired. The Circle was lost, but Kirkwall was not. It could still be redeemed. Hawke gave in to the fate chosen for him and killed the mages.

The madness of it, that Meredith would have a sword made from the idol that had driven Bartrand insane, that the outcome had been decided in Hawke's first year in Kirkwall, was a neat and final cruelty.

Fenris was proud of his friend. Hawke had proven himself, and the city had finally recognized his value. He'd pulled the city from the brink of chaos for the second time in four years, and for the first time in living memory Kirkwall had a strong ruler who would act unflinchingly for its welfare. Fenris was confident that Hawke would be everything Kirkwall needed in the coming wars. The witch had been wrong. Hawke was a dragon.

Since they were speaking of him, Fenris inquired after Anders' health, half politely and half out of genuine curiosity. He and the mage had been constant companions before the Gallows, but they'd shared few words since then.

They'd fought constantly. Anders' dogged belief that mages should be allowed to run amuck made him the perfect target for Fenris' searing hate. Fenris watched Anders' dissolution with a mocking, mean-spirited approval that gradually gave way to growing horror at the mage's suffering. His feelings for the mage had always been a combination of fear, disgust and pity, but even before the Gallows, well before, pity had won out. A demon had Anders, and Anders deserved it for his foolhardiness, but it was a fate that Fenris wished on no one.

Fenris would have done Anders the kindness of ending his wretched life when he'd asked. He would allowed him to pretend that his death had meaning and he was not being put down like a vicious dog. Hawke was not so merciful. Neither Anders or his demon were allowed to escape Hawke's justice. He'd forced his lover to help him, undoing both Anders' life's work, and Anders.

Fenris did not envy Anders, whose limited freedom and continued existence depended on how well he pleased Hawke. The similarity of the mage's present circumstances to Fenris' own past did not escape him. He'd always suspected that Anders had used Hawke's affection, and he doubted that the passionate, evasive mage enjoyed loving Hawke as much as he once claimed to, especially since a hardness crept into Hawke's tone as they spoke of him.

Anders was as well as could be expected, miserable, but no longer speaking of taking his own life. The mage was under arrest and condemned to death, but the mage's sentence was mere ink on paper. It was as much protection as condemnation; Anders awaited Hawke's pleasure, not the Templars'. Hawke as Viscount could and did conscript criminals, and after all the crimes the Templars and Hawke himself had gotten away with, the Viscount viewed the solitary application of law on Anders with contempt. Anders was eminently guilty but a scapegoat none the less; everyone absolved themselves of blame by heaping it on Anders, like they had absolved themselves of responsibility by piling it on Hawke, and it disgusted the Viscount. He vehemently defended his prerogatives. Anders' life was Hawke's, and he alone would decide what happened to the mage.

Hawke was angry, and in some ways changed. Before the Gallows he'd had little patience for those who stood against him—after, even less. He could kill; that was not the issue. He was a consummate killer of his enemies and those who deserved it, but he'd never been forced to butcher, not even with the Red Iron. He would not allow the issues and failings that had led to the Annulment to be neatly disposed of with Anders' execution. 

Predictably, Cullen protested. Anders was not a citizen. He was a mage and a dangerous, murdering abomination, and mages were Cullen's by divine right. He should have died before the Chantry explosion. Cullen demanded the Anders be turned over, but that was all he could do. He was not foolish enough to try to take Anders by force. He had no chance. Everything had changed overnight.

Once Hawke had the circlet on his head and his ascension was publicized by the cryers, Hawke no longer needed the Templars. The city was behind him. Kirkwall had spent so long under a constricting yoke that it had forgotten what it wanted from a ruler, but when Hawke took the crown it remembered. Hawke was a people's Viscount; he was the opposite of Dumar in every way. He ran his office while walking through the streets, with aides and runners and a squadron of guards, and his companions were always with him. Kirkwall was enamored and it hoped for a rebirth and the beginning of a golden age.

Cullen received reinforcements, but they were not enough. Aveline had more recruits by the day, more than enough to match the Templars' numbers. If Cullen ever doubted that the Gallows was a prison, he was reminded. He controlled the Gallows and its docks, but Hawke owned the city and the harbor. Cullen learned quickly that crossing Hawke in anything was a mistake, and doing it often was a recipe for suicide. Hawke's trust in the Templars was gone. His main aim had always been keeping the peace, and he was brutal to those who threatened it. The Order was no longer immune. Hawke was not spineless, like Dumar, or stupid, like Threnhold, the Viscount Meredith had deposed. Cullen's Templars were close to being bottled up, and he did not doubt that Hawke would trap him without supplies and lyrium if he gave the Viscount enough reason. He might have already done it if it were not for the few loyalist mages who survived and the apprentices who needed training. Hawke had already emptied the Gallows once. He could do it again. 

Cullen did not regret bending his knee. Hawke was a stronger man than he was, and the Viscount had swiftly put an end to the escalating violence and kept it ended. It was more than Cullen could have done and he knew it. The peace was tenuous. Hawke needed his cooperation to maintain it, and he would have it or Cullen would die. It was fair. Part of the payment for keeping mages from attacking his Templars was holding his own forces in check. The Gallows and the crimes he had blindly allowed had also taught Cullen doubt, and he wanted to regain Hawke's and Kirkwall's good opinion. That did not stop him from petitioning for Anders and other things he was owed. He had to follow the dictates of his Order or lose the loyalty of his forces. He did it cautiously, visiting the Keep with a small guard and enlisting the support of like-minded nobles. There were few of those. Kirkwall's nobles were as sick of Templar rule and its failures as Hawke and the rest of the city. 

The best reason for keeping the mage alive came from Anders himself. Anders had his own reputation, and it was fueled by his violent act. If they didn't know already, people learned of the Darktown healer, and his grueling years in the sewers. 

Anders was used to buying his life, and he worked tirelessly, as he had before, healing with the Viscount's sister. Hawke's shelter had, over time, become a clinic and a place where those who had no resources could turn to find food and work. Anders was an excellent surgeon and when he used his magic, he was a miracle worker. He could bring a loved one back from the brink of death. People did not forget who Anders was and what he had done, but they were baffled, and forgot how badly they wanted him dead. Those who hated him grudgingly agreed he was invaluable.

Even the public knowledge that the mage was the Viscount's lover became unimportant; if anything it placed the mage more firmly in Hawke's power. There would be no executioner. When the time came he would behead Anders himself. The avowal was a grim reminder of Hawke's ruthlessness, and the mage met it with meek resignation. The public scented a story of tragic love, and anticipated a spectacle. There was no doubt Anders would die eventually, but when, and by whose authority—Kirkwall was willing to wait.

Anders was confined to Hawke's rooms in the Keep or to his new clinic, unless Hawke had need of him. He sometimes did; as much as Fenris was Hawke's right hand, Anders had been his left. When Hawke brought him, he fell into step beside Fenris as he had in the past. If they talked at all, it was about what they were doing or mundane things. Their fiercest arguments were done. Anders was reaping his reward. He had hoped to stand as a free mage, and he was just as free as he had ever been, hemmed in on every side by enemies. The mages he'd incited were free. All across southern Thedas, they were free to run, be hunted, killed or crushed in the Circles. 

Fenris did not see the need to rub Anders' face in it.

He and Hawke sat in silence for a while, enjoying the peace of the gardens.

Hawke had another reason for speaking with Fenris. The elf's arrangements were not suitable for a hero of Kirkwall. Now that the most pressing business of the Viscount's office had been dealt with, it was time to acknowledge it.

Hawke had rewritten the papers Varric had forged and legalized Fenris' ownership of the estate. He intended to repair and furnish it, and declared his taxes paid in perpetuity in lieu of his continued work on behalf of Kirkwall. There was more, but Fenris was too stunned to take note. He gathered at one point that Hawke was planning on giving him a title, which terrified him. The work on the estate had already begun. Hawke was beaming as he spoke, and Fenris did not want to spoil his friend's happiness with doubts and seeming ingratitude.

Fenris walked from room to room when the army of laborers Hawke had hired were finished, trailing his trembling fingers over his new furnishings, realizing for the first time how huge his estate actually was now that he wasn't confining himself to one small area, realizing also that the last thing he felt the right to do was break a wine bottle against a wall. 

He owned it, legally, as himself, and that self was an elf and a slave cowering in a vast, echoing expanse of luxury. He was lost in it and naked before it. There was no deceit and no anger to hide behind. There was no one to fight for it, no one to blame for being forced to live in it, save himself. His marks, the decay and the damage, were gone. In its place was a fragile piece of paper with a seal; he would be ridiculed for holding it and it would be taken from him.

Worse, he was not alone. The surroundings suited his dead master better, and his shadow waited around every corner to remind Fenris of who he truly was.

Hawke's estate stayed abandoned. Bethany, once so eager, did not want it. Fenris got all Hawke's books, some of his furnishings, his wine, and his ale cask. He was amazed to receive all books he had given Hawke from his own estate back, including Danarius' grimoires. They were his by right, Hawke explained. Now that Fenris could read, he could make use of them. Fenris' first instinct was to burn them, but he locked them away in chests in his cellar instead. Hawke was right. One day he might want to know more about what had been done to him. Hawke also gave him several crates of Aggregio Pavalli as a housewarming gift. Bodahn and Sandal came with the hand-me-downs. It was only supposed to be for a little while; Bodahn wanted to go to either Ferelden or Orlais. The dwarf had not decided. 

'A little while' became weeks and then months. Bodahn was old. He was also Hawke's treasured friend, and the Viscount was prepared to lose Sandal's abilities to Orlais, if that was what Bodahn thought was best for the boy. Hawke's generosity moved Bodahn. Once stability returned to Kirkwall and he was given the opportunity to be part of another home, he put his journey off. 

Orana was completely out of place in Hawke's new residence in the Keep, a shy freed slave among servants, used to managing the whole of a small household, not a small part of a much larger one. She was helpless against the intrigues of court that existed even among the Keep's staff. Hawke asked Fenris to look after her. Fenris could deny him nothing, so he agreed. She was just as unhappy with him, and grieved. Her new, kind, gentle master had become her all, and he had put her aside. 

Fenris tried his best to make her welcome, but he was bad at it. He was stiff and formal and everything he said to her sounded like an order, which made her withdraw and in turn made him even stiffer and more formal. He decided to give her a gift, something no slave would ever receive. He remembered something Merrill had once said to Anders, and he took her to the Lowtown market. They glanced under stalls while they shopped, and eventually saw what Fenris was looking for. It seemed as if he had found exactly the right thing; Orana looked at him with disbelief. With trembling hands, Orana had stroked the kittens and then chosen a fat black ball of fluff. Fenris could not pet Orana, but he could pet her cat. She began to feel more at ease.

Isabela came to visit so often, citing baths as an excuse, that Fenris gave her a room to use to keep her out of his, realizing only afterward that he had been played. He did not throw her out. Her laughter filled the empty halls. She was human and her presence gave his residence a combination of legitimacy and debauchery his remaining neighbors seemed to appreciate; she went half-dressed or nude where she pleased, including his courtyard. It was uncomfortable to be her only object and the object of so much lust. He liked quiet and, since he had learned how, he treasured the time he spent reading.

She was wonderful, an artist both in bed and out. She teased and flirted and lured him into sex and let him lure her, each time with the slow and careful passion of a first time; they were perilously close to becoming something neither of them wanted. She was always an impulse from returning to the sea, and Fenris' place was with Hawke. 

She told him outright to expect nothing from her. He was a pastime, a treat she gave herself, like brandy or chocolate, and expected he should feel the same way about her. He did not. She gave herself to others; he had known it and it should not have mattered, but it did. 

When Merrill turned up at his door, her staves wrapped in sackcloth on her back and her few possessions in a large shapeless bag, and asked breathlessly whether she could live with him too, Fenris hesitated, on the brink of telling her to go to the Keep. Another mage would not have dared, let alone bring all her belongings before asking, and for any other mage he would not have considered it, but Merrill was Merrill. 

He had known her for eight years, and she had saved his life many times, often with the blood magic he hated, and treated him well, kindly even, despite his insults. She was a good person.

That and the arrogance common to all mages had led her down a path to near ruin, but she had learned from her mistake. The mirror was smashed. She become careful with her powers and no longer used them simply because she could. She was closer to Hawke, and safer, if she lived with Fenris. Hawke did not have to trot all the way to the alienage to get her when he needed her. Fenris spent much of his time with her anyway; he could not avoid her. He held open the door.

“I hoped you would say yes!” She did him the grace of using the word. She had always been far more perceptive than she let on, especially about hidden things that injured.

“Do not make me regret it,” he growled. 

“Merrill!” Isabela yelled, delighted. She ran to the door and caught the slight elf in a hug, bulky bag, staves and all.

Danarius would have detested both of them, the shameless, cocksure human woman who preferred being a harlot, and the ridiculous Dalish blood mage who let a slave rule her. Together they cornered his ghost and drove it out.

It became obvious to everyone they knew that Fenris' house was open. Donnic visited as he'd always done. Hawke did what he liked where he pleased, relying on his strength, wit and allies to keep enemies at bay, and sometimes they still played Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man. Otherwise, Wicked Grace night moved from Hawke's house to his. No one needed an excuse to show up at his door. Varric managed Hawke's spy network, maintained his relationships with the Carta and the Coterie, bought and sold information, wrote, cared for the accounts of House Tethras, and dealt with the Merchant's Guild besides traveling with Hawke; he was already overloaded before Hawke asked for his help with Kirkwall's accounts, which was a full time position in itself. Varric would have gladly left his work to the Seneschal, but one of the irregularities he discovered was Bran's embezzlement. His days became very long and he stopped on his way from the Keep and often stayed, working from a heavy satchel until late. 

Hawke always arrived with Aveline and Donnic and at least two more guards in tow, and if he spent the night, so did they. To Sandal's delight he always brought his mbari. 

Fenris and Bethany resumed their friendship. Bethany hated the Keep and went nowhere near the Gallows. Bethany was pale and nervous, and her smile was gone. She suffered. She did it in silence, and her lack of words convinced Fenris more than all Anders' complaints and begging. She had worked as hard in the Gallows as Hawke had outside of it and lost friends and apprentices, not to the known dangers of demons and Tranquility, but to Anders and unstoppable Templar insanity. Perhaps she had even lost lovers; Fenris suspected, but did not ask. Unlike Anders, she was strong. She blamed no one. She and Hawke had simply failed, utterly, agonizingly, and spectacularly, at a task forced on them and through no fault of their own, and that part of her life was over, leaving grief and anger in its wake. 

She awed Fenris. He caught himself kneeling to her when he put a blanket over her knees or a pillow at her back. Privately he resolved that whatever part he played in her future would be spent making sure she would never see the like of the Gallows again.

Even Zevran slept on one of his couches from time to time. Isabela vouched for him and that was good enough for Fenris. The assassin did not seem to have anything to keep him occupied now that his hunters were dead. He seemed tired of running, liked Isabela and was curious about her friends.

The days when the number of people in his house was just the five Fenris had actually let move in were rare. Sometimes Fenris woke to such an uproar he thought he'd fallen asleep in the Hanged Man, not his estate.

That was how, before he knew how it happened, he became the master of a house full of people. Stranger still, he did not mind. He was enjoying himself more than he would have thought possible.

He had spent much of his time in Kirkwall wishing and searching for family, something or someone to whom he could belong. After years of deliberately making himself a target he slept better knowing a devastating mage and a lethal rogue shared the rooms on either side of his. Trust was difficult for him, but when he thought about it, who could he trust the way he wanted? These people, Hawke's companions, had done much for him without his trusting them at all. He had not chosen them, but that did not matter. If they failed him he would fall; if they fell, so would he. His own room had always been enough; others could have the rest of his house.

Sometimes he thought the abrupt change in his fortunes was a deliberate plan on Hawke's part. Even though he and Hawke were friends, he could not accept that perhaps it was simple generosity. He thought the profit from Danarius' goods, even with the fifty royals, could not possibly have paid for everything he had received. Hawke had the power to do almost anything he wanted, and they could no longer meet at Hawke's house. The Keep was half as full of enemies as it was friends and a place most of them would rather avoid, Hawke included. Fenris' estate was a good substitute.

His life was nearly perfect. All that was missing was a lover.

Even though what was between them would end in heartbreak, part of him wanted to settle for the little Isabela was willing to give. He knew how to be a plaything, but the kinds of relationships free men enjoyed were complicated and frightening. He did not know who to look for, or how to look. Even if he found someone, he had little to offer. He was scarred inside and out.

War was a constant threat. Sebastian was showing every sign of making good on his promise, and Kirkwall's other neighbors were contemplating the region's only sea port. The Divine was potent and Hawke worried that she might be tempted to continue to do much of nothing closer to his home. Orlais had designs on both Kirkwall and Ferelden. Kirkwall was severely weakened. Decades of poor leadership and violence had driven it to the ground. It needed to rebuild. It needed fortifications and an army. First and foremost, to pay for the rest, it needed money. Hawke looked for ways to acquire the necessary funds as quickly as possible.

He set his sights on battles he could win.

They finally had the freedom and the power, after the Gallows, to end the scourge of slavers in the Free Marches. Before the Gallows Hawke had only killed the ones who had stood in his way, leaving the rest to Aveline and her guards, and turned back to the endless problem of the mages. It had been pointless to try more. They killed many, but many more came on every ship from the Imperium, or flowed in from the countryside all around Kirkwall, reoccupying known bases. It was common knowledge that farmers were harried and elves were stolen, but Hawke could not stop it. Slavers were law abiding and Marchers unless it could be proven otherwise, and their property could not be destroyed or taken from them, unless the possessions were alive and could talk. 

Now Hawke had control of the land, the sea and the law, and he rooted them out. He took his companions and raided up and down the coast and far inland. If the Viscount found an Imperial citizen outside of Tevinter, he killed them. He took everything they owned, and reduced what he could not use to rubble. He made no laws, and issued no warnings. His war was as unofficial as the slave trade itself. If he happened to find other groups he was interested in, like bandits or smugglers or a plague of dragons, he dealt with them too, and spoke with the heads of farming communities close to Kirkwall while he was at it, to see how he could benefit them, besides clearing trade routes and making travel safer. Some wished to be garrisoned, and Hawke was more than happy to oblige. 

Slavers that came by sea were another matter. Kirkwall was the only city for leagues where a slave ship could resupply, and they had always docked in Kirkwall with impunity. Again, Hawke gave no official warning. He waited for slavers like a spider for flies. He had to be careful who he offended; ship captains combined legitimate trade with illegal, and Kirkwall desperately needed the legal trade. He was also considerate with crew. Sometimes crew discovered they had signed on to a slave ship on the edge of some Maker forsaken spit of land, when the cargo was forced to board. At sea they were at the mercy of the captain.

Every ship that docked in Kirkwall was searched thoroughly, and if any supplies to do with the slave trade were found they were confiscated. Hawke appropriated cargo and impounded ships if he found too much evidence of the trade, and had Seneschal Bran impose heavy levies for their return. If the ship was obviously a slaver and the owner was on board Hawke executed them on the spot and took the vessel and its contents for Kirkwall.

It was on one such ship they found Meris. 

There was not enough cargo being traded to justify a vessel that size, and too many supplies being brought on board. Aveline found trouble when she tried to search, but not before she caught a smell of sewage. She approached Hawke, who was already at the docks on other business. He had all of them with him except Merrill; she was at home with a fever.

Aveline ordered the ship blockaded. She and Hawke dropped gangplanks and forced their way on board, casually at first; there was still no real proof that there were slaves. Her guards took the deck, two for every man, and Hawke led his companions into the hold. There they discovered men, women, children and a fool who thought he might buy his own life by threatening the prisoners; Varric put a bolt through his eye, and after that there was no mercy. There were people on board who, by their clothes, were obviously not crew; they slaughtered those and anyone who drew a weapon and arrested everyone else. Aveline secured the decks and the hold, and Hawke turned his attention to the cabins. He kicked down doors and Fenris lunged into the gloom to kill what was there. He could see in near dark, and the others could see by the light of his scars.

In one luxurious cabin there were two occupants, a naked elf crouching at the foot of the bunk and an armed and richly dressed man. The man begged for his life; Fenris stopped his heart, turning his attention and his sword on the slave. It happened sometimes that the slave was loyal and had to be killed too, but Fenris immediately saw this slave was not one of them. His bruises and the chain that fastened his collar to the bunk were more than enough evidence. He lowered his weapon, struck by the young elf's beauty; it showed through the dirt and the injuries. The slave crawled from the foot of the bunk and knelt to him. The captives in the hold had no such discipline. It meant the elf was likely from the Imperium. He seemed fascinated by Fenris, peering shyly at him from under a lowered brow with light gray eyes veiled by long dark hair. When the others entered to have a look at him, he shrank from them but smiled with relief at Fenris, as if the sight of him was reassuring. His gaze was alarming as well as alluring, and Fenris was interested in the reason.

It occurred to him, as he looked into the young man's eyes, that no one could understand a slave better than another slave.

He had no time for reservations. Hawke had nothing to give the people he freed besides freedom, unless they had skills he needed. Once they were fed and clothed, the captives on the ship would be left to their own devices in a strange city. Predators waited for them, knowing they were desperate. The elven slave might have more to offer the world besides the obvious, but Fenris determined to act before a pimp had a chance to pick him up.

They left the cabin. Hawke asked Isabela whether she liked the ship. She replied that she did, but not with all the blood. It was a running joke between them. Hawke asked every time, whether they boarded a frigate or a scow. Hawke had given Isabela her pick of ships, but so far none had been good enough. 

They found the captain and examined his papers. By this time it did not matter what the papers said; Hawke had seen enough, and the man's body was going overboard. He still did not like loose ends; through threats and promises he found the captain was also the owner. 

Fenris and Hawke dragged the man out onto the deck. Fenris made him kneel and Hawke cut off his head. A crowd always gathered when Hawke and his companions went to work where Kirkwall could see. Kirkwall hated slavers and a cheer went up at the spectacle.

“I'm taking the one in the cabin,” he told Hawke.

Hawke raised his eyebrows. “Are you giving him a job?”

“Huh. Very funny. I can give him the chance to find better work, or take him to the alienage personally, if that is what he wishes.”

“He seems to know you. Do you recognize him?” 

“No.” Fenris frowned. “I would like to know about that as well.”

Hawke shrugged. “As you wish. We'll see to him now, before the others, and you can tell him.” He motioned to Isabela and Anders, and they returned to the cabin.

He watched while Isabela sprung the locks on the shackles, and Anders healed.

“After we are done here, you are coming with me,” Fenris told him. “All your master's possessions are yours. Take what you want of them, and wait here for me.”

The elf's eyes widened. The normal response to such a statement should be fright. Fenris expected fear, and had reassurances ready, but the slave smiled again, shut his eyes, and leaned back against the foot of the bunk as if there was no longer a reason to fear anything.

Anders stared and snorted in disgust, shaking his head. “Here I thought I'd seen everything.”

Isabela put her hands on her hips and gave him an arch smile. “Are you bringing him home? Don't I have a say in this?”

“I have not decided yet, but better my estate than some whorehouse. And you do not.” He glared at her.

Isabela pouted. “He's cute. I could get used to him.”

There was a desk with pen and paper in the cabin. Anders scribbled quickly and handed Fenris a slip of paper at the door. He leaned closer and spoke quietly.

“Your slave is sick. Have this made up and give it to him for ten days before you have anything to do with him.”

Fenris eyed the paper and put it in his belt pouch. “I do not know what you mean,” he answered coldly.

“Uh huh, sure,” Anders jeered. “You're not fooling anybody. He'll have nausea, so give the herbs with the tea to ease the discomfort. The Blooming Rose sells an excellent lubricant. I won't be around to heal him again, so buy it and make sure you use it.” Anders smirked into Fenris' reddened face and edged past him to the hatchway where Bethany was waiting to go below.

Fenris swallowed an impulse to start a fight. The mage was not worth fighting any longer. His eyes were too bright and his face was too thin. He had gone completely mad, and insults were all he had left. Fenris took a moment to calm his rage at Anders' crude insinuations and then followed him down into the belly of the ship.

Hawke had enlisted Lirene. There were more starving and unemployed people in Kirkwall than there had ever been and the slaves Hawke freed only added to their number. He made a quick count and sent a runner for her. She arrived with her wagon, and her helpers began distributing clothes, food and water. There was organized chaos while shackles were unlocked, the sick were tended and Lirene's helpers began asking for names, histories and occupations. Kirkwall needed every skill but especially carpenters, masons, and smiths.

Fenris had unique work. He stalked among the slaves, scowling, ignoring Anders' worried frown, listening to what the lyrium in his skin told him. He stopped before a man, motioned that he should be clothed and fed, went farther and found a woman. When they were dressed, he collected them and took them aside to a supply room in the hold and shut the door behind them.

“Mages,” he began. 

They started, and backed away from him, apprehensive. He held hand up as he edged closer, palm out in a calming gesture, crowding them.

Merrill was usually present to help. She could smell demons. Fenris liked his way better. He found those who would give themselves to demons.

The air cracked as he ignited the lyrium. He reached out, gripped the woman by the shoulder, and thrust his other hand into her chest.

The male mage cried out in fear and shrank against the hull. 

“Your turn's coming, mage!” Fenris shouted. The female's face was white. He gave her heart a gentle press. He hoped it would be enough, and it was. She began to change. Her skin discolored and her eyes grew hard and malevolent. A quick twist snuffed out her life. She dropped and he eyed her corpse cautiously, prodding it with his foot. It was still. 

He turned on the mage, who was whimpering. “Please don't. Please.” 

He knew how to intimidate and he was glowing white with a power the mage could not know. His eyes would seem like black, baleful pits. The mage did not cast; he was almost mindless with fear. Casting would have been useless anyway. Fenris was too well protected and too close. The mage cowered, hands raised.

Fenris reached through the mage's hands, seized him by the throat and and began to crush it, sinking the tips of his gauntleted fingers into the muscles of the man's neck. The mage's eyes bulged. Fenris drew back his other hand and snarled, letting the mage see all his hate and the approach of the death Fenris was eager to give him.

The mage did not fight back. His eyes squeezed shut. For a few long seconds Fenris studied him carefully. 

Fenris was impressed. He let him go, and the man slid down the hull and sat, gasping. He felt his throat with a trembling hand, and gulped when he saw blood on his fingers.

Fenris stood over him. He dimmed his scars. “My apologies. I had to be sure.”

“Maker,” the mage breathed, shuddering. “Maker's breath.”

“You are safe now.” For the moment, he added to himself. Fenris took a potion from his belt pouch and broke the seal. “Here. Drink this.”

The mage took it. Fenris waited patiently until his breathing began to even. 

The mage swallowed the potion and the wounds Fenris had given him closed. He was still trembling. “She was possessed? Is that why?”

Fenris nodded, still watchful. He started by asking the mage's name.

It was unofficial, like much of what Hawke did, but Hawke no longer willingly turned every mage over to the Templars. He had changed over the years. He followed the example of his closest ally, Alistair of Ferelden, and gave them free access to his city. What mages did was their business, and if Templars hunted them, that was the Order's business. If he had to become involved, he did what he had done before the Gallows and killed the ones who were openly dangerous. Fenris did not agree, but he did not need to. What he could do was help make sure that whoever entered the city was the absolute best of their kind.

The apostate's name was Mercer, and Fenris became less disgusted with him as they spoke. Many mages were thin or flabby, but Mercer was solidly built, square, as if he had spent time working physically. He was short for a human, plain looking with nondescript features and black hair, except for his eyes, which were a brilliant blue. It took him a while, but once he got over his shock, he was grateful to be alive. Healing was part of his repertoire, and blood magic was not. He had been taken near Markham. There had been a rogue Templar with the slavers and he and the woman had been repeatedly silenced and cowed with beatings until they dared not try to fight back. He expected to be turned over to the Templars and was resigned to it, despite knowing he had landed at the infamous Gallows. He spoke plainly, as if to an equal, sounding more like a fisherman than a mage. Fenris was almost glad to inform him of the various options Hawke was willing to give him.

“Really?” asked the man nervously. “You'll let me go, just like that?”

“Yes, just like that,” Fenris nodded. “The Viscount has no love of Templars and Circles, not after what happened here. He will not willingly turn you over and will offer you his protection, or the means to leave the city. Do not choose his protection lightly. You will be bound in service to Kirkwall, and the Templars will know of you, so consider carefully.”

“Well, that's a bit odd, if you'll forgive my saying so. I thought he helped annul the Circle here. Everywhere I've been, people are talking about it.”

“He did. He took no joy in it. There was no other way to save the city.”

“Are you actually trying to tell me he's a friend to mages?” The mage laughed scornfully.

That question was more like the arrogance Fenris was used to seeing. He took back his grudging respect. “There are more people in the world besides Templars and your kind, mage. The Viscount is the Champion of Kirkwall, not Templars or mages. The city could use your help, but only if you are willing. You can do nothing, if it suits you better, but expect nothing in return. If you decide to make trouble—” He gestured at the dead woman on the floor for emphasis.

The mage blanched. “I see.”

“Good.”

“That blonde healer.” Mercer's voice was thin. “Is that Anders?”

There was no more need for the Viscount and his companions after the healing was finished. Hawke raised his eyebrows when Fenris returned with only Mercer. Fenris shook his head. Hawke left Kirkwall's newest citizens in Lirene's capable hands, the rest to his aides, and helped Fenris collect his belongings. 

The slave was waiting for him in the cabin. He'd found leggings and a tunic, and had a small bundle. Fenris found a cloak with a hood in the cabin that would serve to protect him from prying eyes. He put it on him and led him from the ship.

Hawke held his contingent back, pretending to look at something at a market stall. He waved Fenris on. Anders and Mercer were talking, and Hawke was listening in, frowning. Fenris paused, deliberating. He should be with Hawke, but he also wanted a few moments alone with the slave. He and the slave walked ahead, and Hawke and the others followed, out of earshot.

“What is your name?” he asked the young elf brusquely.

“Meris.” The elf had a voice that matched his appearance.

“I am Fenris,” he told him. He thought he saw the elf smile slightly in the shadow of the cloak's hood.

“You are not like the others,” He guessed. “You are from the Imperium.”

Meris nodded. It was as Fenris had thought. It was very unlikely the young man had been taken along as a private pet. Such a slave would not be hurt, or hurt with far more refinement than Meris had been. He was a ship's whore, meant to distract those inclined to abuse the cargo. Fenris wondered how such a beautiful creature had come to such a terrible fate. He should have been worth far more; then again, beautiful slaves were not rare in Tevinter.

“Were you born there?”

Another nod. The slave seemed content to walk beside him in silence. Fenris still expected fear, especially given his purpose on the ship. A new master was terrifying. Despite Fenris' words on the ship, Meris should be frightened and mistrustful, wondering where he was going, and what was going to happen to him. Fenris did not know how to deal with inexplicable trust.

Meris was definitely frightened. He looked at everything, and recoiled from everything. People talking, stepping too close or moving too fast made him flinch, but not Fenris. He drew closer to Fenris, as if only Fenris was safe.

It was too strange.

He stopped them, taking the slave's upper arm in a firm grasp. Hawke, ever sensitive to trouble, closed the distance between them. His sister and the others came closer, curious, forming a half-circle around them.

“You know me. Explain.”

The young elf looked up at him, the skin around his eyes crinkled. He was confused and uncertain, but still not afraid of him, Fenris noted. He bit at his lower lip before answering.

“You are Fenris.” The elf said it as if it were obvious.

Glaring, Fenris resisted the urge to shake him.

“Everyone knows who you are. You are the lyrium ghost who killed his master. You killed the Magister Danarius.”

This was not what he had expected. Fenris gaped at him. His grip loosened and his hand slipped.

“Everyone knows except the Magisters. They pretend you do not exist,” the elf's lip curled into a sneer. “But slaves know. You killed him, his apprentice, all his followers, and everyone he ever sent against you. You destroyed his House.”

Varric laughed delightedly. “How did he hear about that? That part's not true. You did give it a pretty good shot, though. You would have managed it too.”

“He does not mean the estate. He means Danarius' House. His household, in Minrathous.” Fenris was shocked. He felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. He understood everything, the looks, and why the slave was not afraid.

“Kaffas,” he muttered. “I destroyed his House?” He knew he had done damage, but had not imagined so much.

The slave was looking at him as if reality was better than fiction, better than dreams. Fenris heard Anders' quiet, surprised chuckle. Trust the abomination to read everything the slave's gaze held. 

He shook his head, dismayed. “It is not as you believe. I did not do it by myself.”

Varric crowed. “Don't listen to him. We were there. He cut down an army like a reaper cuts wheat. Blood soaked the ground for as far as the eye could see, and ran in streams. Shades and demons fell before him. He was unstoppable.”

Meris listened eagerly, eyes shining, fear forgotten. 

“Do not make it worse,” Fenris told the dwarf harshly.

Hawke grinned guilelessly at him. “Worse? You did all those things. You still do.”

“Stop.” Fenris rubbed his forehead. “Venhedis.”

Varric huffed. “C'mon, Broody, a little hero worship won't kill you. Let's go, kid, the Viscount's a busy man, and so is his long-suffering dwarf. We'll tell you all about it once you've settled in.”

“Varric,” Fenris growled. “Are you responsible for this? Did you write a story about me?”

Varric held up his hands in mock reproach. “Broody, I wouldn't do such a thing. Not without asking you first, although I've been tempted. It would make an excellent piece. Let's get walking.” 

Hawke's entourage set off. Fenris and the elf were in the midst of it now. The slave was abruptly not an outsider. It was no wonder, given what he had said.

Varric pointed a thumb at Meris, who was listening avidly. “Is this really so surprising? A Magister can't enter the city with an armed guard without being seen and talked about. You killed him and a dozen slavers in broad daylight in the busiest watering hole in Kirkwall. Word spread fast. There was a ship from Minrathous at the docks. It waited for him, you know, and took his body. A lot of people asked a lot of questions. You made a big impression. Didn't you notice the extra walking space people gave you when you were done brooding?”

On that day Fenris had gone straight to his estate and spent the next three days alternating between drinking himself to oblivion and crouching on the floor. Seeing Danarius again, hearing his voice, feeling his horrific presence, his lascivious gaze, and his death, his acute absence, knowing that even after years apart, Danarius could order him and he would go, order him and he would kill everyone he had ever loved, still, even now, even dead. 

He never once believed he could truly escape, waiting alone where Danarius could find him, and he had not. 

He had missed his master, his gentle, cruel fingers stroking his ears and throat, digging into his hips. His master had finally taken everything, destroyed everything. He was alone. His life was burnt up, everything that had sustained it was gone, and all of it was ashes. The hand not holding the wine had curled reflexively. He wanted to sink his claws into Danarius' throat, feel sound deaden around his fingers and rip it out once more, but it would never happen again.

He refused to talk about what had happened to anyone but Hawke. 

Perhaps he should have talked with Varric. “The people who asked questions—did you answer them?”

“Andraste's shiny ass, if you accuse me one more time—alright, maybe I told a few people about my part in it. The point is, I didn't have to. Your hunters were never discreet, and neither were we. The night we met you we killed at least twenty people in the alienage alone, and that's not counting the ones you took care of while we were distracting that lot. Did you ever consider what it was like for the elves living there at the time? They were besieged, and if they somehow managed to sleep through battle, they woke to piles of corpses. Hadriana sent slavers to Sundermount. You have to know they bothered the elves there, asking about you. Your story has been making the rounds for a while, elf.”

Fenris shook his head. He had never thought of the impact his actions had made.

“On top of all that,” the dwarf continued, “a certain redhead boarded the boat. Who knows what she's been saying.” 

Fenris was too disturbed to want privacy or to talk to Meris at all. He had nothing to say. There was nothing he could say. The others did not understand. Meris was a slave. 

He was ready to do anything Fenris asked, ready to be anything he wanted. Eager to be whatever he wanted, if he rightly interpreted the sidelong looks he was getting now.

He would scoff at the idea that there might be more Fenris could want than he knew how to give. How much more could there be besides everything?

It had been the same for Fenris. It had taken him years to learn better, and he was still at risk of losing himself in another.

Fenris felt robbed. He had been rash, and now he was paying. He was not even sure he liked the elf. He had only meant to declare an interest. 

At least whatever lingering reservations he'd had about bringing a stranger into his house were gone, which was well, because the elf was going to the estate, and he was staying. How he had developed feelings for Fenris did not matter. The damage was done.

“Only you would find the bad in this situation, Broody.” Varric was looking up at his face, grinning at him. “Only you.”

He turned his attention to Meris. “I'm Varric, kiddo. What's your name?”

Surrounded by people, Meris had become apprehensive again. He recoiled. His answer was too low to hear, and the dwarf had to ask twice. 

Varric couldn't stand it. He started talking, telling Meris what part of the city they were in, and what sort of city it was. He kept teasing as well. Fenris' name came up often. Varric talked about the points of interest as they passed them, finishing every description with a cheerful accounting of who and how many Fenris had faced, and whose lives he had saved. He used his 'No shit, there I was' voice and because he had started with an obvious exaggeration, now everything he said sounded true. His hands moved as he talked. Hawke's group stopped whatever conversations they were in and started listening as well. Varric made it sound as if Fenris had fought on every street corner in Kirkwall.

Meris forgot himself. Fenris frowned, uncomfortable and embarrassed, but Varric was doing something he could not. 

They had reached a high spot in Lowtown, and had a view of the ocean. 

“What is that?” Meris asked Varric, indicating the Gallows.

“That—“ Varric fell silent. He halted and the party followed his gaze across the harbor.

Anders' voice was bitterly sarcastic. “Oh, don't stop on my account. Go ahead, tell him all about it.”

Varric ignored him. He stared across the water for a long moment. The Gallow's smooth walls absorbed light. They were blacker by day than by night. 

“That's where Fenris and Bethany killed a harvester,” he finally said. “Hawke and me and Anders—it took us down right quick.” 

It had come very close to killing them all. He had fought with blood in his eyes, staggering, almost spent, chipping weakly at the obscenity Orsino had become, trying to distract it from Bethany and the prone forms of his friends. Bethany had not healed him; he had not expected clemency from her. When Orsino had finally stopped moving, Fenris had fallen to his knees and collapsed. She had stood over him, leaning on her staff with bright eyes, and he'd looked up at her, panting, expecting death. 

She'd healed Hawke, and only Hawke. Fenris had dragged himself to Anders and forced his last potion down the mage's throat, hoping it was enough.

He took a deep breath, ignoring Meris' awe. They'd lived. Meredith had also been a monster, but he had not been alone.

“I'll tell you about it some other time, kiddo. I'll need to be in a chair with a few ales in front of me, not puffing up a hill choking on dust. Maker's breath, it's hot. Help me out, Ravaini.”

He dropped back and Isabela smoothly took his place.

Muttering about the usefulness of dwarves, she took a tarnished silver from her cleavage and began playing with it while they walked, one-handed, palming it, making it disappear, sending it rippling across her fingers and back again. She talked; where Varric had talked of places and Fenris, Isabela talked of people and things, and left Fenris out. 

Her hands were filthy, black in the creases with ground-in dirt and blood, and the coin had a dull sheen. Her voice was calm and smooth and the coin flickered back and forth, in sight and then out. Fenris knew this game. She spoke to Meris the way she had once spoken to him. It had distracted him from his thoughts for a while, and some of the things Isabela talked of while she played it were interesting. He remembered moving coins, small daggers that spun and flipped. She'd done it until he had finally lost his temper at what he had increasingly seen as fidgeting and incessant nattering, and then she'd grinned and never done it again. 

He listened absently, irritated. She asked questions and half answered them, as if she realized Meris was in no shape to answer. He remembered with him, a lot of what Isabela had talked of was about people, lovers, and sex. He hoped she had the sense to avoid the last topic with Meris. 

Frowning, he noted that she did realize it, and she did have the sense. She was choosing subjects carefully, without the slightest hint of her usual impatient sigh, and they were the banal, non-threatening, everyday sort that usually bored her to tears.

He and Meris watched the coin while Isabela spoke. She informed, described and defined without telling Meris what would happen, what to do or what to think. Fenris could feel the tension leave the slave as he became more familiar. Meris could not be anxious or suspicious; he did not even know he was being taught. He was looking at a coin in a practiced hand while a woman quietly talked.

It had been deliberate with him too. Fenris had never understood. Abruptly he understood more.

She'd done the same thing for him with her body. It was no accident she was the only person he had slept with since Danarius. Her constant assertion that they were just having fun and doing nothing important let her slip through his defenses and distracted him while she reworked all his experiences and everything he thought he'd known about love and sex. He had been unaware. He thought they had fallen into bed together for lack of anything or anyone better to do.

He tried to remember what she had played after he had forbade the talking game. It was the underwear game. The color cerulean had done it, or maybe aubergine? He still didn't know what shades they were supposed to be, but she had been so suggestive and made it sound so good, leaning close and purring it, he'd followed her into her room. When he'd emerged twelve hours later, bemused, more relaxed and less foul-tempered than he had ever remembered feeling, Varric had met him at the top of the stairs. 

“I know that look,” Varric had laughed. “Let me buy you a few, get you turned around right before you have to face the world.”

It was a good way to describe it. He'd felt turned around. 

Such kindness could only come from love, he realized. Isabela loved him. It might be the most of the emotion she allowed herself. 

It was perfect irony that the moment he considered someone else, he would become aware of Isabela as never before. He stumbled.

“Tired?” Hawke had come up beside him.

“No.”

“Huh. Maybe you're getting Merrill's cold.”

“Perhaps I am.” Fenris did not want to talk. He had been shaken. Meris' revelation was enough to send him to his room with a bottle, but Isabela—he needed to think.

“What does it mean to destroy a Magister's House?”

“Ah,” Fenris was dragged from his thoughts. “It means that there was no one left powerful enough to oversee Danarius' estate or protect his children when he died. His enemies overwhelmed it, and his bloodline ended.”

“Danarius had children?”

“Yes, of course. He came from a long line of mages. I did not know them. I never met them.”

“So he sent everyone after you and finally came himself and was finished?”

“Yes. It seems so.” 

“That's hardly your doing, if it's true. He did it to himself.”

“Everything is always a slave's fault.” Fenris made himself smile. “Houses fail, and Danarius had many enemies. I most likely had nothing to do with it, but that would not stop rumors among slaves. For a while I was afraid his heirs would come for me, but if his House is gone, it appears I am safe from them.”

“You never told me this.”

“It was just a fear. I had no grounds for it.”

“Well, fear no more. If anyone dares come for you now, we'll escort them to the Gallows or the Maker, whichever they prefer.” Hawke laughed.

“I do not doubt it. Thank you, my friend,” Fenris smiled at him, a wide, open, honest smile. He loved Hawke, and loved what they had. Hawke grinned back the same way. Their best smiles were reserved for each other. He had given Hawke his absolute trust and allegiance, and Hawke repaid him in kind. There were no better friends in the world. 

“Any time. How are you feeling about it?”

“I do not know.”

“We should share a bottle of wine soon, and chat. We haven't done that for a while.”

“I would like that.” Talking with Hawke would help him sort through the tangle of his emotions. It always did. Hawke was everything a free man should be, yet had an uncanny insight. Fenris did not know whether Hawke's ability was usual among others or not. Hawke was the only person he had ever willingly trusted with his debilities. He could now count Isabela too, but she had got it through trickery.

Varric had been listening in. “Y'know, Broody, if what the kid says is true, you've assumed ownership of what's left of Danarius' property. In a way, you're his inheritor.”

Fenris turned on him, horrified.

Hawke snorted. “That's ridiculous. Fenris seized it. It's a spoil of war.”

“That depends on one's point of view, doesn't it? I'm tempted to find out what other property he had in the Free Marches, and what else I can forge.”

“If you do, I refuse to be part of it. Make Hawke or yourself his inheritor.”

“As long as you're alright with it, but don't be hasty. Think about it. I can manage whatever there is as an investment for you. If there's anything it's yours by right, as Hawke says, but if you really don't want it, we could liquidate the assets for Kirkwall.”

“Take it. I don't want it, I have enough. If there are slaves, give it to them.” Fenris was astounded. He should know better by now, but the depths of Varric's avarice and cunning always surprised him. “There's no such thing as a wealthy elf, Varric.”

Hawke shook his head. “That's going to change,” he muttered.

They were in Hightown passing the huge pile of rubble that had been the Chantry. There were people praying at a makeshift shrine Hawke had built near what had once been the entrance. The streets were cleared but the estates nearest the Chantry had not been rebuilt.

“Use a dwarven banker, Broody. They don't care as long as—oh shit, Hawke, look.”

Up the narrow street, just visible through the sprawl of estates, were the steps to the Keep. A group waited at the foot. It was Cullen with a delegation of Templars and nobles.

Hawke groaned. “I can just imagine what they want. They're making sure I can't sneak past them. It's too bad. I was looking forward to Orana's cooking.”

Varric had nabbed his heavy, bulky brown leather satchel from one of Hawke's aides and was angling toward the steps that that led to Fenris' door. “I'll let her know you said that, Hawke. You don't need me, right?”

“No, go on, abandon me.” Hawke sighed. He looked longingly toward the path to Fenris' estate. “Fenris, I need a favor. Would you take Anders and Mercer for a while? I would prefer Cullen didn't see them.”

“Take me too. I'm not up to playing hostess today.” Bethany looked tired.

Fenris was taken aback. He trusted Hawke's sister. She was an honored guest. Merrill had become about as harmless as a mage could be, and had always been a poor excuse for a maleficar to begin with. He had gotten used to Merrill and Bethany, but a strange mage and Anders at his table?

Fenris had killed someone in front of Mercer and then threatened him with death only two hours before, and Anders—insanity did not begin to describe what was wrong with Anders. The abomination had never been in his estate except with Hawke, and never for longer than it took Fenris to pull on his gauntlets and pick up a sword.

“It'll only be for a little while. Aveline will come to pick them up as soon as I've dealt with Cullen.”

Mercer was doubtful. “Perhaps I should find my own way from here.”

Hawke was not about to let a healer slip through his grasp so easily. “At least have a look at the clinic before you decide. You'll be safe with Fenris. Go with him.”

“This will be interesting.” Anders sneered. “Hawke told me he fixed up your estate. I can't wait to see what you've done with the place.” 

Fenris ignored him. “I am no jailer, Hawke. What if he runs?”

“I'm right here, you know.” Anders grumbled, scowling. “I won't run.”

“Really? What's changed?” Fenris scoffed. He turned to Hawke. “My estate is hardly a fortress. I can't protect him either. Are you sure about this?” 

“You're the only one I can trust with him.”

That was true. Even Aveline would lock Anders in a cell, post a guard, and then attend to other matters. If he was dead when she returned she'd claim oversight. Fenris would watch him and defend him to the death for Hawke's sake. Fenris looked down, resigned. “As you wish.”

“I knew I could count on you, thank you.” Hawke beamed.

Hawke and Aveline saw them to Fenris' door, and then Hawke's retinue left.

Fenris unlocked the door and ushered everybody into the anteroom. Isabela had Meris in hand. She guided the elf inside and unclasped his cloak for him. 

Fenris watched Anders surreptitiously for his reaction and was not disappointed. Anders was smugly contemptuous until he stepped through the door. Then he stopped, looked around, and his mouth fell open in amazement. 

“Welcome home, messere Fenris! Messeres!” Bodahn greeted them jovially and threw open the doors to the greatroom. Merrill was bundled in a blanket on a couch by the fire, and Orana was pouring tea for her. They both looked up and smiled broadly in welcome.

Fenris smiled back. It was his turn to be smug. “Come in, mage. Make yourself at home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an answer to a question nobody asked (but me). What would happen if everyone Fenris knew began living with him? 
> 
> About my OCs: I will not go Mary Sue, I swear. They are not me in disguise. They have a purpose. They're Fenris echos. I want to establish a few things dynamically instead of being limited to Fenris' internal monologue or boring lists of descriptions about Tevinter. I also want to alleviate tension by introducing more and different tension. >:P It's funner to write this way, and I hope it will be more fun to read.
> 
> I've always thought Fenris is outnumbered. There is no one like him in Hawke's group. He is more than a foreigner. He's an alien. The other characters are from the south, but Fenris is from Tevinter, and he's been physically changed to something other than an elf. He's been stripped of his self and disconnected. He's the only one who was a slave, and the only one for whom sexual abuse is part of the story. He's the only character who has lived in a nation ruled by mages. I think when he tells Hawke he's alone in Act 3 and has no clue how to continue, he means it, and it's devastating. I decided to give him two friends with similar backgrounds so his unique circumstances and POV carry more weight. I hope you like my OCs :)
> 
> Meris in Latin means “nothing”, “from the sea”, or “bright, pure and undiluted”, depending on the translator :P.
> 
> I don't know much about triggers. I plan to deal with all the issues that come up as honestly as possible, and if it is in the character's nature to stumble, or not recognize an issue for what it is in themselves or others, that's what they will do. I apologize in advance if this causes pain.
> 
> I killed the harvester with just Fenris on normal difficulty during a pro-Templar playthrough, so what Varric claims Fenris did in the fic is actually true. Of course the animations showed Hawke being awesome because Varric had a book to write, but I know what really happened. :P
> 
> There's precious little information about the Tevinter Imperium, so I'm going to be forced to make some stuff up. It will look like the Roman civilization it was based on, with all its warts, like its decadence, patriarchy, rape culture, etc...
> 
> I only own DAII. I have not purchased any of the DLC or any of the other games yet. I probably won't buy them until I am well into this fic. I intend to enjoy my ride into DA :) It's easier to write the characters as if they don't know what's going to happen when I don't know what's going to happen. I've read Asunder. I might get canon severely wrong. Please bear with me, and let me know if I make any mistakes.
> 
> Please be gentle, it's my first fic! <3 Constructive criticism will be gratefully accepted! <3 I hope you enjoy this work :)


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